


The Smile On Your Face - Backstory

by smileyfacegauges



Category: The Smile On Your Face
Genre: Candle Cove - Freeform, Creepy, Creepypasta, Cryptids, F/F, F/M, Horror, Horror Fiction, M/M, Multi, Polybius, cryptid, smiling man - Freeform, urban legend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileyfacegauges/pseuds/smileyfacegauges
Summary: A peek into the lore and backstories of several of the main cast members of The Smile On Your Face, a horror fiction saga based upon popular stories.Illustrations and other work pertaining to it can be foundon my tumblr.





	1. ATTN: FRIENDS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Voice.

…- — -..- / .–. — .–. ..- .-.. .. .-.-.- / .– .- -.- . / ..- .–. / ..-. .-. .. . -. -.. … .-.-.- / - …. .. … / .. … / - …. . / -…– … / — ..-. / - …. . / -. .. –. …. - .-.-.- / … - .- -.– / …- .. –. .. .-.. .- -. - .-.-.- / -.. — / -. — - / … ..- -.-. -.-. ..- – -… .-.-.- / -.. — / -. — - / .- -.. ……-…-.-.- / -.. — / -. — - / -… . -.-. — – . .-.-.- / … - .- -.– / .- … / -.– — ..- / .- .-…-.-.- / -.. — / -. — - / -.-. .-.. .. – -… / - …. . / … - .- .. .-. … .-.-.- / -.. — / -. — - / -.….. -.-. . -. -.. .-.-.- / -… . / — -…-.-.- / -… . / .- .– .- .-…-.-.-

Then he lifted his hand away from the transmitter.

The nightly message was displayed and transposed to his compatriots on a regular schedule, and was received in full effect no matter their state of consciousness, whether they liked it or not.

They heard his Voice in their heads; they saw it in their hands. They knew the words and his tone in their papers and in their screens. They could not escape his Voice, for he was everywhere, and always. It was a part of their Being.

Many of them could recite it word for word; many could anticipate its arrival, though the exact timing was never the same. They knew what it meant. They knew to heed it. Though the select few were forced to disobey, they felt the message in the honeycombed marrows of their bones.

No distance would save them from the broadcast. They had to Hear it. 

It was a tiresome task that had to be done, and has been in undertaking since the very invention widespread electric communication.

Fox Populi poured a handsome tipple of mahogany brandy into his glass. He’d completed his duty. Tomorrow he’d wash and repeat. And the day after that. And the day after that.

And the day, and the day, and the day, and the day, and the day after that.

Until his Voice would give out.


	2. Jolene Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolene, Jolene, Jolene.. please don't take him just because you can.

They Heard the Voice.

He broadcasted and they Heard. They were lighting a cigarette in the dark motel room. The smoke lifted in ashen white ribbons to the ceiling and dissipated before they broke the height of her head. 

They have Heard the Voice for nearly all their life. His message was always the same. At first, his message hadn’t made sense. They Heard it in their head and couldn’t make sense of a sound that wasn’t theirs; well, not theirs at that time. At the time they had been a waifish white woman, whose voice was the sound of summer rain, and they hadn’t heard that musical lilt in their head since early 1845.

Then he Spoke to them. They thought they were going insane. The first night that they Heard him was in a dream. Then they Heard him in their waking hours. They Heard him again, in unconsciousness and in the midst of flirtations in the dawn of the morning. They have never met him. They just knew him, and they had to Listen.

Sometimes Jolene Heard his Voice while they sewed. That was their fate. Ever since they were Aware of their gift, their curse, their duty, they were sewing. One night, they were sewing a new patch of soul onto their skin and beheld the glimmer in a morose light. The man - too often a man, so often a man, such a supple and weak gender to their wiles, and not as often as wise as a woman though they, too, were susceptible to their allure - had quite the future ahead of him had he not glanced in their direction.

But they were not at fault.. entirely. The inclination was there, and could not be erased with a weak will. He, as many before him and many after him, had a will made of wet putty. And so he was theirs. And so he would be erased and belittled, condemned and pitied. Mourned by people who had no business mourning him, and mourned by friends who didn’t have it in them to set him on the better path.

As was all too common.

So Jolene Heard the Voice as they sewed his memory into their skin. It would take a day or two to heal and so he would be committed to them as a part of their being, and flash as a useless warning to the next one to fall to them. When they Heard him in that moment, they then felt the weight of their immoral need in the world. That was the moment in which they Knew how their very self was a necessary evil. A necessary good? or so they liked to hope. 

Unfortunately for them, Jolene was one of the few that had to disobey the Voice’s urgings.

When he broadcasts his Voice, these days, Jolene just has to acknowledge the message with a smile. They know that the Voice has his duty, as they do have theirs. They also know, now, that they are a part of an intricate and delicate web. They are a part of many, and they share the same sorrowful presence and future of disobedience because

because

because

because

because

because

because without them.. 

without the ones like them..

……..

what would happen?

Jolene didn’t want to acknowledge the ache of having to Know.


	3. Let's Not Meet (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby Jane was really sorry for what he did to that woman.

Bobby Jane was pretty sorry about what he did to that woman. By the time the news got around to him that her story was flooding the internet, it had been a few weeks since their ill-fated encounter.

It was strange to him to read about himself from a first-person account. As far as he knew, she was the first one to actually chronicle him - or the first one to gain wide-spread attention. He recalled being sent the link in an email by The Glitch (name as of then unknown), encrypted and passed through innumerable, untraceable digital alleyways. 

His morning brew was disturbed by the story and so a healthy (by some standards) tipple of cognac was added. Cognac wasn’t a favorite but it was within arm’s reach, and a gift from Bakul. The large Malaysian would probably have kicked his ass and swept the floor with his bloody hide if he’d known he’d disgraced the liquor in a cup of Folgers coffee, but really, Bobby Jane would’ve just taken it with a deserving air.

God, how it hurt to read it. How embarrassing. _The Office_ never could have lived up to the brand of secondhand embarrassment he felt. He read it over and over until his eyes unfocused and the words swam, and when he closed his eyes and dug his knuckles into his soft sockets, the world rocked violently side to side.

_Once I had put about half a block between us,_ she’d recalled, _I turned away from him for a moment to watch the sidewalk in front of me. The street and sidewalk ahead of me were completely empty. Still unnerved, I looked back to where he had been standing to find him gone. For the briefest of moments I felt relieved, until I noticed him. He had crossed the street, and was now slightly crouched down. I couldn’t tell for sure due to the distance and the shadows, but I was certain he was facing me. I had looked away from him for no more than 10 seconds, so it was clear that he had moved fast._

Fast was an understatement. Marone once said he moved faster than a blink of an eye. Of course he didn’t take him very seriously; Marone moved like winter-stripped branches stiff with molasses, but even Hiroto (now talk about a weird fucking man) had given him a disconcerted glance. Ten seconds was a long time. Ten seconds would have gotten him closer to her.

Ten seconds was a lifetime between her next breath and her funeral. 

She was lucky, that night.

_When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. What I meant to ask was, “What the fuck do you want?!” in an angry, commanding tone. What came out was a whimper, “What the fuu…?”_

He’d heard her, too. In his Reverie, he’d heard her yell at him, and then, her defeated tremble. 

_Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it. I heard it in my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn’t react to it at all. He just stood there, smiling._

He sure did. Bobby Jane can’t smell fear. He can hear it, and he can feel it like the vibrations of a tuning fork on a cello through his muscles. Her fear was bathed in symphonies. He recalled loving the way she reacted to his smile and his dance. 

God, he was so sorry she came upon him that night. The Reverie wasn’t for her. He had always tried to be so goddamn careful about where he became overcome by it. It wasn’t her fault. He should have paid more attention. 

But really, she shouldn’t have yelled at him, either.

That’s not her fault. It really isn’t. Humans are scared. .. the Ungifted are scared.

It’s really their right to be.

_And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and started dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again, I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight. And then I realized something. He wasn’t moving away anymore, nor was he dancing. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He was coming back my way. And this time he was running._

Bobby Jane remembers the wind in his face. The orange glow of the lightposts became voltage streaks against an endless black backdrop. His Reverie was incomplete because she yelled at him. How could she have known not to scream? he asked himself hopelessly, blearily staring at the screen, the letters becoming mashed. 

It wasn’t him who ran. He’ll swear on it. When he is.. that thing, not himself, in the Reverie, he is pushed to a second consciousness. He sees what he’s doing and he can know every piece, but who is the thing that forces him to ritual? If he knew, he would stop it. If he knew.. he could control it. 

That woman is so goddamn lucky she’s alive.

_I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for another walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn’t look drunk, he didn’t look high. He looked completely and utterly insane. And that’s a very, very scary thing to see._

He’d imagine so. As terrifying as her experience was, he’s only a ghost story on the internet now. He’s an urban legend. He, and she by proxy, is lucky that The Eye wasn’t trained on them that night. There is no footage. No CCTV. No solid evidence, even if it’d be debated and debunked and scrutinized, exists of him. 

He’s lucky. She’s lucky. But really, he feels luckier than her. He hates to be so selfish about a traumatizing experience. Since that night, though.. they haven’t met again.

Bobby Jane is so, so goddamn fucking sorry for what he did to that woman. He’s even more sorry that people know that he’s out there.

He never wanted to be known as The Smiling Man.


	4. Polybius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Glitch.

_An entry for the title was added to arcade game resource coinop.org on February 6, 2000.The entry mentions the name Polybius and a copyright date of 1981, although no such copyright has ever been registered. The author of the entry claims in the description to be in possession of a ROM image of the game, and to have extracted fragments of text from it, including “1981 Sinneslöschen”. The remainder of the information about the game is listed as “unknown”, and its “About the game” section describes the “bizarre rumors” that make up the legend._

_\- Polybius, Wikipedia entry_

He stared into the middle of the hazy screen. The game was played through his peripheral vision. As though this were a vision test with a central dot in the middle, he was fixated on the exact center. His fingers danced on the controls like a marionette. The red button was a little sticky, but the blue was smooth as new. That was a conscious thought that kept him “awake”, so to speak, as he played. It acted a thread of consciousness that was fraying between the strapped in focus of the game (the game the game the game the game the game the game the game the game) and the fringes of reality. _The red button was a little sticky, but the blue was smooth as new._

The joystick thudded in its socket as he maneuvered. Diagonal, up, down, left left, up, down, left right left left right. Red, blue, red red blue blue red blue red blue blue blue red. 

Wes had been standing there for approximately three hours. His eyes were strained and sore, his lips were dry. His jaw and teeth ached from clenching, and his forearms were going to be temperamental when he goes to sit down at the computer in another twenty minutes. He wasn’t allowed to Work until he was given full Orders. He still had one more level to beat until he received them all.

He first met Polybius in 1982. It showed up in the local arcade. He was young, then. Wes was an arcade rat; he lived and breathed games, spent all his money on tokens, dreamed about the next Pacman championship. He was also an amateur cameraman and editor for the local news. People would tell him he oughta get out of this no good, dead end small town and go make it big in Hollywood. He’d agree. That was the plan, anyway. He just needed a bit more cash before he could think about buying a car and driving it, stuffed with his entire life, and drive the miles to fortune.

Then the Lou’s Arcade got a new cabinet. Naturally, Wes had to play it. Polybius had been touched by other hands before he finally got to truly even see it. In fact, it took him over a month before he even got to see the title screen; everyone was hooked on it. Everyone was talking about it. They couldn’t believe what they were playing! He felt slighted; wasn’t he the big time player around here? Shouldn’t he have been _invited_ to play it first? People oughta been parting like the Red Sea to give him full first rites!

Kids were even _fighting_ about it. He couldn’t believe it. Bloody brawls broke out about the goddamn game, bad enough to get the police involved. Lou was madder than the time some jerkoffs broke his air hockey table, all because they were fighting over a girl. Old Lou was threatening to take the cabinet away, and people started to cool off after that. All he had to do was threaten. It was empty, of course; his revenue was at an all time high thanks to this funny new game. One did what had to be done in order to keep order in a wild world like an arcade.

When he finally had his time, he slid the two tokens into its slot and grinned down with eager anticipation at what he’d see. The screen brightened to a halo of fuzzy, gradient grey. The grey gained green along the outer edges, like tufts of grass. Pixels emerged in star bursts, collecting gradually from their black hideaways to form the name of the game, cherry picked from the depths of the screen.

_**Polybius.** _

The next thing he knew, he was alone in the arcade. The atmosphere was cleansed (not faded? not curtained? not shrouded?) in black. Whomever was behind him were gone. The greasy, sickening smell of cheap pizza still stung at his stomach acid, clenching his throat - but the counter was long gone. He was alone with Polybius, two things (things?) in the middle of a room that expanded forever.

Wes had shoved his way into conversations and eavesdropped on others. Kids that were quiet nobodies were suddenly hotheads. Hotheads that were rough-em-ups were even more bloodthirsty. All because of this goddamn game. They were fighting over one big topic: nobody could agree what the game was about.

Nobody ever had the same experience.

Not one person could relate to what they saw.

Not even the fucking title screen.

People who looked over others’ shoulders while they played - now they could all agree on it. But the players themselves were at violent odds. Spectators all reported a series of events that were pretty standard to an aliens in space game. What was the big deal? they all asked, until they shoved their coins into the slot and laid claim.

But Wes was alone now. He and Polybius. The thrum of the inner machinery was drowning in his ears. The clicks of the buttons and clacks of the joystick were jostling his brains. 

Click, clack, shrk, tap. The screen flashed. The images and the sounds were coordinated. They were a part of an aria. They belonged together. _They were a language._

Polybius was speaking to him, and Wes Ficht was the only one who Understood.

_And so, he was Chosen._

Thirty years later, he stood at Polybius - the only one, the one ever only - in the dead of the morning. 

Click. Clack. Tap, ddsk, ddsk, click.

Tap. Tap. Wrrsh–dddshk.

Orders received.


	5. Candle Cove Bar and Grille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Owner has an old friend in to visit.

The screen door swung open. Then, the sticky, swollen wooden door cracked open like thunder, and as two heavy footfalls shuffled dirt and dust on the old hardwood, the screen clattered, and the door was shoved into place.

The swipe of worn soles announced the bearer of those old boots. In the kitchen, Bakul filed the plate in the rack, and mopped his sudsy hands with a damp towel. 

As the visitor dully approached the bar, he took his time hooking the towel over his shoulder and wiping the last film of water on his white apron. His knees creaked under his burly weight as he lumbered to the swinging, port-holed door, and emerged with a smile just in time to see his old friend heft himself onto a splitting, faux leather stool.

The establishment wasn’t officially open yet, but there were a select few who were allowed to barge in, whose money wasn’t good here.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo, old timer.” Bakul greeted, baritone and thick with no sleep and an accent that never was normalized to America.

His visitor’s head bobbed in a weary acknowledgment. “Sun’s up, night’s gone.”

Bakul strolled behind the bar and retrieved a tall bottle of Wild Turkey from the shelf. He overturned a glass and filled it to the brim, and watched as his friend lifted it to his honor, and swallowed it in one gulp.

So was the dance of their customary greetings. “How’re the roads running?”

“Long and wide, too far and too dark,” he replied, watching the huge Malaysian refill his glass. His hand was so enormous, his fingers nearly touched around the girth of the bottle. “But all clear, as best as we hope.”

Now that their ritual was complete, Bakul leaned his weight into the bar, shoulders rounding to his ears as he got comfortable. The man on the other side sipped on this next tipple and their eyes met. 

This man was a close friend of his. One of two; the others were all acquaintances, colleagues, clients. He was known as The Roadrunner - a trucker whose lineage was native to this country, whose Gifts were of their myths, and whose wife was a legend outside of them. Bakul called him “R”. He’s never offered him his real name, and so he’s never asked.

It was kind of fitting, considering his property.

“Any new news on the grapevine?” R asked him, the stool creaking as he shifted his weight.

“None worth repeating,” Bakul replied. “Though I heard you on the radio a few nights ago.”

R’s face split into a crafty grin. Bakul smiled, too, like boys in on the same devious joke. “Yeah, you liked that?” the trucker chuckled, twisting the glass on the counter, bleached with alcohol. “I was losing my mind, I was so fucking bored.”

“I figured. Arizona’s a long ways away. You have to keep sharp.”

“Those Texas fucks can get so cocky,” R complained. “I had to take ‘em down a notch.”

“I think you took them up ten notches before the went down to zero,” Bakul smiled. “They screamed like children.”

R beamed with pride. He sat a little straighter and feigned a humble shrug. “It was one of my oldest tricks.”

Bakul hummed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as he filed through his memories. “Hmm.. by the sound of it.. I was putting money on your headlights gag.”

_**The headlights gag:** in which, in the droll of a night on the open road, enormous beams burst on the wrong side of the road. A trucker face to face with a beast as massive as the one he drives, headed straight toward him, without a roar of an engine or a scream of horns. It would “collide” with them, burst straight through them, the ghost of a big haul - and in the silence of it, the shattering scream of a man’s gruesome death that would quake their very bones._

A few truckers have swerved and damaged cargo (and their trucks) from frantically swerving and colliding on their side. Others have been so lucky as to drive right into the runaway. Only one or two have swan dived off a cliff.

The survivors kept the tale alive on the radios to serve as a warning. Too many would dismiss them and call them a laughingstock. Too many would keep hallowed silence on it. A few - usually the amateur newcomers - would be scared shitless over a ghost story.

R toasted his host and drank his booze. “How much do I owe you?” he joked. “You’re damn right.”

“Well deserved,” Bakul nodded, again topping him off. “I’m surprised to see you back here so quickly, though. You took your sweet time to Arizona.”

“I had an enormous window for delivery,” R explained. “I figured I’d stop by and see the wife, maybe do a little cleaning up.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine,” he said, his gaze on the liquor. “Lonely. It’s been hard lining up jobs to get around to her.”

Bakul nodded empathetically. Though he had no romantic pursuits or entanglements, he could understand the guilt that sat in his friend. He imagined it’d be difficult to maintain a relationship with a woman like the one in White.

“I’ll bet she was happy to see you.”

Now that was worth a smile from R. “She was. I miss that old girl. She’s pretty as ever.”

The Owner smiled. The two of them shared a silence then, respectful of the wife and of each other. Bakul admired R’s capacity for love and his loyalty. His loyalty was a big reason for their mutual trust. He couldn’t say he’d put himself in the line of fire for The Voice, or Plain Jane, or even Jolene, but for R and Hiroto, his life was theirs.

Minutes passed. Eventually, at the bottom of the glass and the end of their silence, R rose to his feet and patted the bar twice with his strong, meaty hand. This was the beginning of their departure ritual. “I’ll be back later,” he promised Bakul. “I got a few errands to run.”

As mandated, the Owner nodded. “I’ll see you on the next turn. Keep your eyes peeled.”

R’s weight bowled the old boards as he crossed them to the door. He jerked it open, and pushed the creaky screen on its rusty hinges to swing to the outside. “And you keep your ears open.”

When the clatter of R had waned, Bakul was alone, and how small he felt in the Cove.


	6. Scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marone.

Marone loved scarves.

His shop was the most colorful, the most diverse, the most exquisite scarf boutique he could ever imagine. His prices were (mostly) fair (depending on his mood and the attitude of the customer) and his clientele was as broad as his patterns. 

There was a loom back at home - and a spinning wheel. He spun his own silk and yarn, and worked tirelessly on the loom for hours. Days. Weeks. He did knit, too, of course. He didn’t like knitting as much as being at the the racks, but he had to appease his customers.

Knitting reminded him too much of his childhood. Back in those days, proper young ladies knit or embroidered to chastely pass the time. Marone was supposed to be proper, but he wasn’t ever a young lady. That was his thinking, anyway. 

When he was born, he was Josephine. He was told that he was a sweet little girl with pretty, long, midnight hair that was wavy like a ripple on the midnight lake. While that was awful nice to say, Marone felt slighted by it. He couldn’t say so much as boo, though, and when his parents moved in next door to that wonderful boy, he was willing to accept his fated role.

He knit on the swing; he knit on the couch. He knit before he went to sleep, a book balanced just so that the pages wouldn’t prematurely turn, between his knees. His parents gave him his independent space - so long as he remained on the estate.

But it was on his estate that he encountered a boy who would become his _(her)_ husband. A boy who was as inquisitive as a common person ought to be, but somehow different than the others, about the scarf she _(he)_ wore around his _**(her)**_ neck at all times. 

He was different than everyone else, though. He showed her respect.

He showed her love.

Marone brought his newest creation, a fern green scarf trimmed with golden birds and auburn branches, to his face. His eyes slipped closed as he nuzzled his cheek into his work; it felt soft, cloud-like, wrapped in rose petals. It reminded him of Amadeus’s favorite opera scarf.

“Why do you wear that scarf?” Amadeus always asked him. _(Her.)_

“Your impatience will be your downfall,” Marone _(Josephine)_ would remind him.

“I never see you without it. You look a pretty present when we make love, darling, but I would like to kiss your neck without its hindrance.”

“One day, you will - if you have the patience for it.”

“My dear, you are worth the patience up unto my dying breath.”

When they made love, darling, Amadeus was sweet as summer melons. Their whole lives together he was courteous (and curious, if not sometimes on the border of pestering) about Marone _**(JOSEPHINE)**_ ’s ever-present scarf. And he was a dutiful and wonderful husband who respected boundaries and apologized when they were crossed.

Marone’s vision trembled on waves as tears filled his eyes. 

There would never be a man again who would, or could, or even walk the tightrope of that love that Amadeus gave him. Love without judgment. Love without pain. Love that was real, true, and honest - even after he found out about.. …………………………

The scarf was darkening with his tears. 

Marone cried long and hard into the scarf that was a replica of the one that Amadeus wed him in. It had been just over a hundred years since their wedding day. Oh, Amadeus - his Amadeus! His sweetheart, her lover, her husband. 

The sobs were too harsh on a body so old and fragile from the beginning. As his shoulders shook, he could feel the waning strength on his long neck. The bone and the meat ground against the divide of each other like wet sandpaper. He didn’t bother to stop it. He was dislodging. The putty he used to try to mask and secure the laceration never held. 

In the replica of his marriage scarf he carried his head, fallen from his tall neck. Though his body obediently held the silken basket, his head cried and cried and cried.

And cried, and cried.

And cried.


	7. The Cove of Wealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the history of the real Candle Cove and Bakul's time on the seas.

_So we’ll roll the old chariot along_  
An’ we’ll roll the golden chariot along.  
So we’ll roll the old chariot along   
**An’ we’ll all hang on behind!**

 

He was not a captain of the sloop. That’s what he called it, pure and simple: a sloop. Some of his fellow sailors took moderate offense to that, as it was, in actuality, a sloop-of-war. Not just a sloop-of-war, others would point out: it was a Bermuda sloop. Many of his colleagues were uptight about the details of their great floating sea giant. She was fast, she was a pain in the ass for the proper ships-o-war, and she was the favor of many pirate bands across the shores. Men whose outfits were formerly deep blue and brass, sworn in by the Admiralty and commissioned to protect His Majesty’s people were now donned in filthy rags and stained by their sweat. How could anyone truly blame them, as these individuals had turned away from the Navy and become treacherous adversaries of the great, expanse waters? There was some humor to be found in pirates that held dearly on to their former lives.

Funnily enough, they were wrong about the Bermuda sloop. These were hardly man-of-wars. These sloops were generally merchant or slave ships, and was seized in a raid by nearly half the outstanding crew. These were speedy ships, and their Royal Navy “friends” were well aware of that, but were happy to play professor on the stature of them. In truth, the more motley crew were finely educated on the details of a Bermuda sloop, however otherwise uneducated they were, but enjoyed the way the sailors made fools of themselves. It was entertainment to listen to them run circles around themselves, and were never the wiser. 

Bakul didn’t really give a shit about others’ feelings concerning the proper terminology for the ship they were on. A sloop was a sloop for all he cared, and it got the crew and their cargo across the seas, didn’t it? So damn the eyes of First Mate Hadey, and damn the eyes of Carpenter Lorrey. Those two were the most vocal about their nitpicking, and according to the mixed-language grumble of the crew, they were often on thin ice for their discontent.

Unfortunately, Hadey and Lorrey could not be thrown overboard, as they were crucial pieces to the puzzle of the Royal Navy.

Tonight was still. No wind rustled the sails. The crew was gathered on deck, sweating like hogs and stinking the air with the unwashed pungency of onions. This is the way the men stunk; so gross and feral as they were, many of whom refused to bathe even in port, even their seasoned noses couldn’t make the sickness of their stomach go away. 

The master and commander was perched on a skylight. He was no post-captain, simply a master and commander, and held no respect as a full captain. He was one of the castaways of the Royal Navy; a man who was honored as a master and commander and then fell sideways to the sway of criminal warfare. He was a man slighted by the Admiralty and when the opportunity presented itself, he turned against his fellow man and slew his brothers in the name of independent privateering.

Under his command, they took many prizes from many countries, all sorts of merchants and commission alike. Bakul had served under him for just a few years, a remnant of a former crew that had been overrun by their pirating.

He had been involved with pirating from the ripe age of twenty-something. Even he had forgotten how old he was; the days were one and the years meant nothing to him. He’d never learned his birth date and so it didn’t matter, but other men had gauged him in his twenties. Even at this supposed young year, he was thick with muscle and bald by choice. Bakul had been looked down upon due to his coppery skin and lack of English, though his might and bite had established him as a force to be reckoned with.

That wasn’t immediately relevant tonight. Tonight, in the dismally suffocating summer heat, they were gathered on deck to get sloshed and sing. 

Their anchor wasn’t rooting them in place. They were at the mercy of the winds, should they choose to pipe back up, and rocked peacefully on the sea. 

As the grog flowed and the men became more loose, the talk of their great white whale emerged. Their master and commander, known (incorrectly, and demeaningly) as Captain Jost, had promised his crew a wealth beyond their comprehension. Supposedly, one night at a whore’s tavern, he was traded a story and a map to a mysterious place known as the Candle Cove.

The Candle Cove held weight. Sailors of languages across their little world whispered about it, and debated its authenticity on a careful basis. It was rumored to be cursed by a sea witch, or an undead horde of troubled sailors, or by Titan himself, or by a necromancer who had made his home in its depths.

According to the story (and depending on who spun it), the Candle Cove was illuminated by ghostly, dripping candles that heralded the curious ship deep into a cave that oughtn’t be so yawning. As the adventurers pressed forth, the numbers would dwindle, and the men would lose time; hours passed as seconds, seconds passed as days, and madness was surely to prickle at their weary heads.

At the end of this uncertain journey was said to be riches. Riches that would put the King to shame; riches that would mark their lives, and their descendants forever more, as taken care of until the world would end.

As always, there was a catch. Should any crew (and there had been many, according to legend, that failed spectacularly in their greedy quest) reach the mountain of wealth at the end, the actual trouble lay in getting out. Though there were horrors beyond one’s imagination were crafted, no one story was exactly the same, and how could it? These were tales borne from men who had never actually been inside Candle Cove, and who reminded their audience that no one has ever made it out alive.

Captain Jost had heard multitudes of stories pertaining to Candle Cove, and for the price of a purse full of gold and a handful of precious jewelry seized from a fine lady of societal virtue, he was given the map.

The men were excited. Some naysayers were stifled under the prospect of being the ones to uncover the famed unspeakable wealth that lay in plain wait for them. They were overeager, idiotic, and naive.

Bakul believed in the Candle Cove. He also felt a certain unease about the voyage, and of course, he was not alone. But he, like the others who were quickly shut up, kept their skeptics in silence.

He watched Captain Jost that night. An Englishman was pale by default, but tonight under the looming moon, he appeared grey. They were en route to their destination, merely a day or two away from its mapped location, and the men were bristling with impatience. Something ailed ol’ Jost. The crew were blind to it the closer they got, but Bakul was one of the very few that kept a tab on their (not) captain. 

The Candle Cove had a grip on Jost. There was something that had planted root in his mind. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, and hadn’t taken his rations in two. 

Bakul could not sing that night. He wouldn’t sing another sea shanty tomorrow when the wind picked up, or the next day, or the day after that.

In fact, when they would breach the flickering mouth of the Candle Cove, he would never want to hear another shanty again.


	8. You Can't Look Behind You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eye.

Has anyone ever felt like they were being followed?

As far as most people (might be) are concerned, there are a few types of ‘feeling like you’re being followed’. It often goes hand-in-hand with feeling like you’re being watched. This is a trait deeply rooted in the brain from humanity’s long since passed past, meant to keep a life alive in the wilderness. It’s scientifically proven as a survival defense. The brain alerts the individual to unseen danger, causing anxiety, trepidation, feelings of dread. This is also commonly known as a ‘gut instinct’. 

Feeling like you’re being followed can be physical and it can be uneasily spiritual. Perhaps one looks over their shoulder and finds that there is someone actually tailing them. _'Oh shit,’_ they might think, and pick up the pace. Then there’s the prophecy type, as many people have reported. The type that says, _‘My mom is in danger’_ and being several hundred miles away, or _‘I’m about to be mugged’_ as they approach an alley, or even so forthright as, _‘I really ought to get out of this area before I die’._

Thanks to these ancient and helpful leftovers, a human can (sometimes) narrowly escape trouble or call up a family member to confirm their fears. Of course, this doesn’t affect everyone. The unfortunate many have to suffer with consequences that they can’t help. It’s sad to be sure, but this is just how the world works.

Furthermore, on the subject of the unfortunate and also the aware, there are times when one is being followed and they simply cannot figure out who, or what, or why, or where it/he/she/they are.

So is the nature of The Eye.

‘Found footage’ has been very popular since the blockbuster film _The Blair Witch Project._ It’s sparked internet videos of strange occurrences taken on grainy cameras and web series that detail supernatural entities. So many of these have been debunked and there’s an enormous following (if one might be so humorous to say) after these videos. People have been spooked by these, willingly or unwillingly, and they’ve been enjoyed on various levels ever since.

There’s a slight problem with these videos. Of course, as mentioned, there are quite a few that have been classified as ‘fake’. In many instances, they’re right. 

The humble truth is that too many more of them are real.

Take a down and out college student for example. He took the long way home from the bar one night. He needed to reflect; the girl he was desperate to woo had her sights on another man. He spent three hours at that bar swallowing beer after beer and emptying his checking account on drinks for his hopefully-would-be princess. No such luck for this young man tonight: she said thank you for the booze and was kissing a chemistry major in the corner just before he had the balls to ask her out.

Poor idiot. Poor soul. He shouldered his jacket on and left at approximately 1:32a. He had taken an Uber to the bar that was a meager twenty minutes walk away. He didn’t feel like spending any more money that night, contributing to a student debt as per a bank’s delight, and decided to take the scenic route home. The college was smack dab in a quiet town, for being a college town, and was surrounded by wonderful, broad woods that were magical during the fall.

The student thought it’d be nice to roam in the cool air and clear his drunken head. He chose the path cleared for casual hiking that began at the side walk of a main street and ended right by his dorm.

At some point during this roundabout trail, which added a solid fifteen minutes onto his travel time, he began to feel uneasy.

The first brush of it was rebutted by the thought of, _‘I’m drunk, I’m being stupid.’_ He continued to shuffle down the path. The feeling grew stronger. There was someone behind him. Around him. To his left; to his right. In front of him. There were eyes, eyes boring into his back and into his skull and made the hair on his neck stand directly on their follicles. 

_‘This is stupid, the woods are just creepy,’_ he thought under weak confidence. _‘It’s nothing, it’s just dark. This is bullshit.’_ So he trekked on, but quickened his stride.

He worked up the nerve to glance over his shoulder. There was not a soul in sight. There were no rustles in the leaves, no careful footfalls, no indication that there was actually someone joining him on his night walk. He had to chalk it up to drunk paranoia. Yeah. That’s what it was.

Lo and behold, he did make it out of those woods safe and unharmed. The moment he was on the sidewalk towards his dorm, he felt a gush of relief. See? There was nothing to be worried about. Nothing at all. How stupid it was– how _stupid_ the night is, making a (nearly) grown man feel so vulnerable.

He was within five feet of the dorm’s front door. Yellow light spilled onto the step. He was within five feet of true safety when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It made him jerk. Fear yanked his heart like a violent puppeteer’s strings, and he was still shaky when he fished it from his jacket. Maybe the girl had a change of heart? Maybe it was a friend that was looking for him? He stood in place and looked down at his lock screen. 

There was a text message. Confusion wrinkled his forehead; it was from a blocked number. He didn’t know that anyone could receive text messages from a blocked number. The paranoia momentarily forgotten and replaced with bafflement, he unlocked his device and up popped the message, unprompted. 

There was a video.

In his intoxicated state, he wasn’t so sure he was even seeing this. His thumb moved at a snail’s pace over the play button, and the video enlarged to the screen.

His eyes grew as wide as they’d ever be. From the caverns of his chest were dumped icicles through his heart right down to his heels. His bones locked in place. There was nothing he could do but view a horrifying, dangerous video.

The moment it ended, he gasped for breath. It rattled like marbles on tin, and though he began to look behind him, he hadn’t the courage to complete the turn. He felt sick to his stomach and bile was at the back of his tongue. Instead, he found his feet and bolted for the dormitory door. Locked, he dug haphazardly into his jeans and passed the key four times under his violently shaking fingers before he could even grip it and open the goddamn _fucking_ door.

In his terror, his precious phone was dropped.

He would not remember it until morning. He’d be late for class, waking up at 11:30a for a lecture that began promptly at 8:00a. At first he’d feel a jolt of anxiety - his phone! - and then, he’d try to settle into his uncomfortable mattress. He’d remember what he saw. He’d feel guilt for losing his phone, and hope that it was gone for good. Maybe he could convince his parents to buy him a new one. He’d curl up under a scratchy comforter bought in a bed set from Bed Bath and Beyond on clearance, and stare numb, frightful, and nauseous at the opposite wall.

For all he hoped, it had been an alcoholic fever dream.

Yeah.

That’s what it was.

**VIDEO PLAYBACK**

_[Subject walking ten feet ahead. Green glow of night vision tints the video. Movement of camera suggests the natural stride of a large man. The only sound is from the walk of subject. Subject is followed through the trail for the remaining two minutes of travel time. Subject is seen looking over his shoulder and reflection shines in his eyes. Appears to see no one. Continues to travel. Videographer stops and remains at the mouth of the trail. Camera observes the subject walk towards the dormitory. Camera swings downwards, suggesting the videographer is preparing to end the video. Camera blackens. Three seconds pass. Red text appears on a black background reading:_

**HAVE A NICE WALK?**

_Footage ends.]_

Since the phone was lost, he’ll never know if the video remained. He’d like not to. The truth is that as soon as the video ended, it was mysteriously deleted from the phone’s memory forever. Someone else would pick it up and enjoy a nice bit of cash from turning it in to a reseller. 

The instinct to know if you’re being followed is precious. Hang on to that. There may be an Eye watching at all times. God forbid you find yourself on a YouTube video someday.

Others haven’t been so lucky.


	9. So What Do They See?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolene.

They never really know what they look like to a victim.

Whenever there’s a target, they shift to become whatever is most desired by him (and very rarely her). They have been all races, all creeds, donned in diamonds and drenched in stale cigarette smoke. They have been timid and mild and brash and crass as a humanized crack of a whip.

They don’t get to choose their personality; whatever their victim wants to see, they are, and how the desired personality is, they act. There have been a record low number of instances in which a personality was incorrect to the visage, and those are times that Jolene doesn’t understand.

When Jolene passes a mirror, they don’t see what their Chosen sees. On a normal day in which they have no specific sight in mind, they are whatever they decide. Even without a preference, they Are. Jolene can Choose and Jolene can Be. 

They don’t remember being human. They think that they might have been before their Gifts emerged. Perhaps they’re wrong, and really, they can’t give a lesser shit about it. Being human once is a comfort. They have existed for a very long time and they really don’t have the heart to consider that they didn’t have a childhood.

The question of what they see when they look in the mirror is obnoxious and spiteful, in their opinion. When Plain Jane asked them, bitterly, what they thought that they were, Jolene had half a mind to abandon their pact and rip his skin off his chest. How were _they_ to know that they’d appear as Marone today?

The first time they encountered Bobby “Plain” Jane, they were apparently an androgynous, sepia-skinned person with dark hair in tight waves flowing over their shoulders, eyes made from lagoons, their height above his eye line and their upper lip sporting a scar. They remember how Jane - as his nickname suggests, is as plain-looking as a stock model - stared dumbly up at them like a tourist at the Eiffel Tower.

Plain Jane wasn’t a choice target, really. Their first encounter was purely out of whimsy. Jolene hadn’t had a Chosen in a while and so they were just looking for a sucker. Jane fulfilled that requirement pretty easily, but their night was cut short by the emergence of a grinning demon.

Since then, Jolene had been acknowledged as a Gifted and reluctantly brought under Jane’s tattered wing. At least they knew of more of them, now. The Voice wasn’t their sole connection anymore. As a matter of fact, The Voice knew and communicated regularly with Plain Jane, and so they were more intertwined as they thought. From Jane they met Marone, and The Glitch, and learned of The Eye. They visited Bakul in The Candle Cove Bar and Grille, and some time later, had a terrible “misunderstanding” with The Roadrunner.

The Stair Builder was still rather mysterious to them.

These men, though, always became bitter towards Jolene. Since Jolene was able to transform into whatever they desired most in a partner (and, embarrassingly, became the visage of even close friends at times and thus exposing their dark wants to their own damn eyes), they felt acutely bitter and attacked by a being that couldn’t control their appearance. It left Jolene angry and spiteful on their own account, and quite appropriately so.

Plain Jane, at least, has made his efforts towards being a better man about it. Jolene can still see the minute hate and disappointment in his eyes if he happens to appear as Marone to him. On those days, Jane informs them what he sees, and he at least is able to control his behavior.

Thanks to that, Jolene prefers Jane over most.

But still, they will hear the question time and time again, from the same people, with the same judgmental squint of their eye, curl of their lip, flare of their nostrils.

_What do you see when you look in the mirror, Jolene?_

When they look in the mirror, they see..

What is nobody else’s business.


End file.
